surprise. im a hoe for dragon age.
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"Oh, Hawky," Isabela drawled. "Can't you take a break for one night?"
Dozens of police reports lay sprawled across his desks, so many he was starting to lose track of them. Not that he was losing track yet, of course. Not Garrett Hawke. They were just getting . . . a little out of hand. And blurry. It was getting increasingly difficult to read every different officer's scrawl. Perhaps he should actually bother one of those transcribers Carver took advantage of.
That did not mean a break, though. If he wasn't analyzing these homicide witnesses' reports, he would be mulling over investigation information regarding New York's mafia problem. There were no new clues, no reports he didn't know by heart, but that meant nothing. There was a link. He knew there was a link. Carver knew there was a link.
Carver Hawke sat on the other side of the cardboard separator, his cubicle right up against Garrett's workspace. That probably wasn't supposed to be the case, what with their rank difference - hell, Garrett had an entire office to himself - but they heavily preferred working next to each other, and nobody had seen an issue granting them the privilege. Garrett's younger brother gave Isabela a weary quirked eyebrow.
"We have more important things to do than go clubbing with you," he said dryly. Isabela snorted, resting her forearms on the desk, and Garrett had a nagging feeling it was just to show off her ample cleavage in an attempt to change Carver's mind.
"Not you." Alright, maybe he was wrong. "You're no fun. I know Hawky will drink with me, though."
"Isabela . . . "
"Yes, Kitten?" Her voice was sultry and suggestive in response to the man's heavy sigh, and she stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. "Come on, we all miss you. It's been so dreadfully long since you joined us for a round."
"Garrett?" Carver had been so certain of himself just seconds ago, and hell, Garrett had been too; they definitely had more important things to do. Their ongoing investigation, the filing, the mountains of daily paperwork that Garrett may or may not have been guilty of downright neglecting.
He stroked his beard in contemplation, and Isabela let out an excited squeal. When Garrett was thinking, she knew she'd won.
"You should come with us, Carver," he relented, and his brother gave him one of the most sour looks he had ever seen, and that was saying a lot. "Or don't, I suppose."
"Some of us don't like to slack," Carver scowled. Isabela pouted harder. He sighed, relenting, and waved a dismissive hand at her. "Go have fun, then. Tell Merrill I say hi."
Isabela cooed. "You could just tell her yourself, you know," she suggested, offering a hand. Carver ignored it.
"Priorities," he muttered, and they all pretended to ignore the red spreading across his cheeks and reaching his ears. He ducked his head and focused on the keyboard in front of him. Isabela let out another chortle, grabbing Garrett's arm.
"That's settled, then! Onward!"
Garrett barely had time to grab his briefcase before she was tugging him away in a show of surprising strength. He was positive she merely wanted him to leave his work things at work, but he couldn't afford to lose any valuable resources or materials. Carver raised his hand in farewell as they made their way to the elevator, and Garrett waved up until the doors slid closed.
Isabela already smelled of alcohol - but then, she nearly always smelled of alcohol. Confirming his suspicions, she produced a bottle of rum from seemingly nowhere and took a large swig, then offered it to Hawke. He politely declined.
"Boo," she said, but took a happy swig in his stead, looping her other arm with his. Isabela was always so comfortable when she was literally hanging on everyone else. "Come on, we've even got Aveline out of her man-cave for the night. You don't go out with the boys to turn down rum!"
"Half of you are girls," Garrett pointed out. "And I find it hard to believe Aveline is there for the booze."
"Well, she's still drinking." Isabela drank once more from the bottle. It was now half-empty. "That's all I care about. Better than you, at least."
Garrett elected to ignore the comment. At least he was going out at all - that was rare, and Isabela knew it, so she didn't push. He only really agreed because the only work he would get to tonight was what Aveline called his "proper" work ("You're not going to get anywhere with those leads, Hawke, put your real work first"), and he did not want to deal with that on his down time. Carver could speak for himself. He had all his day work done and could properly focus on their investigation.
Not that there was much even going on in their investigation. They had tiny breakthroughs here and there, but nothing that actually helped at all. He smiled to himself. Carver would strangle him for thinking that, no matter how true it was. Perhaps Garrett was just getting older, but their goal was just seeming so impossible, so unlikely, so menial and boring at this point. Maybe he was mellowing out.
He was not going to give up. He just . . . supposed he could afford a little down time.
The elevator doors slid open, and then Isabela was dragging him outside. The cool March air hit him instantly, so much more pleasant than that muggy office, and he wanted to stand there for a long while and simply breathe it all in. Maybe he was aging. Maybe it was just the work. Nevertheless, Isabela did not grant him pause, leading him across the lot, across the street, and into the Hanged Man.
The Hanged Man was a decent bar. It was a little rough around the edges, with a few lightbulbs out, some worn upholstery, and occasionally some questionable characters, but the alcohol was decent and the police station had never had to make a house call, so it was a favorite among officers of all ranks. The owner certainly didn't mind all the traffic; the cops were likely the primary reason the place was still afloat.
"Ah! Hawke! Best captain in the world! You've really done us a service, Rivaini."
Isabela gave a less than graceful curtsy, and Varric chuckled, gesturing for Garrett to join their little party at the corner booth. Everyone else was there - Aveline, as promised, nursing a whiskey; Varric, with a larger bottle, scribbling away at a notebook; Anders shoved in the corner, sipping a beer and keeping out of the way; Isabela, squealing and latching onto Aveline, causing a hell of a scene; and sweet little Merrill, already quite tipsy, face flushed with some fancy mixed drink in her hand.
"Get off of me, you wench!" Lieutenant Colonel Aveline had her hands on Isabela's waist, trying hard to pry the woman off of her, to no avail. Isabela grinned wolfishly.
"Oh, but don't you know?" Isabela crooned, grasping at the officer's muscled biceps with stars in her eyes. "I just love being manhandled, big girl."
Aveline made a noise of disgust, shoving Isabela firmly off her lap and onto the floor, shuffling as far away as possible. Laughing, Garrett took the seat next to her, effectively saving her from more torment. Isabela merely sighed happily from her spot on the floor, earning another sound of distaste. There was the Isabela he knew. Undoubtedly not yet drunk, but tipsy enough to act the part, and she adored doing so.
"Oh! So good of you to join us, Hawke!" Merrill seemed to have just noticed him, and she leaned over both Anders and Aveline to take his hand. There was surprisingly little protest at the action. Then again, everyone loved Merrill. "You never go drinking with us."
Garrett rubbed at his neck with his free hand. "Well . . . " She was right. He never went out with them anymore, not since his old days as a cadet. So rarely, in fact, that he often felt as though he was forgetting how to socialize. With his own friends. What a mess. "I'm a busy man. Lots of things to do."
"He was doing paperwork when I went to get him!" Isabela sounded scandalized, and Aveline let out a derisive snort.
"Maybe if you did your real work during the day, you wouldn't have to make it up in the wee hours of the night." Garrett had no real response to that. She was right, really. He had no business sacrificing important work for his personal reasons. Still, he gave a sort of nervous laugh, and Merrill patted his hand sympathetically.
"Maybe you shouldn't issue him such boring work," Isabela complained. Aveline didn't even grant her a glance.
"Now, now," Varric interjected, raising his hands in a consoling manner, that voice of his ever so smooth and calming, "did we really invite Hawke just for a roasting session? The man could use some booze!"
Isabela was so quick to rise that she nearly fell over from the dizziness it elicited. "You're right! To the bar, Hawky!"
"Not you, Rivaini," Varric said firmly. He looked around the booth, assessing the current damages and the upcoming ones, and settled on a choice. "Blondie, why don't you go?"
He certainly could have chosen easier. Having been sitting in the middle, everyone scrambled to get out of the way, despite Anders only needing one path out of the booth. Surely they weren't all this uncoordinated? Garrett glanced at the slight flush on Aveline's face, the serene smile on Merrill's, the bottles in both Isabela's and Varric's hands, and then compared them to the general air of sobriety surrounding Anders. Suddenly, he was thankful.
Finally, the man was free, and they both made their way to the bar. Anders seemed grateful as well, now that they were away from their rowdy friends. They seated themselves on the high stools and, without even glancing at the bartender, Anders ordered Garrett a rum and coke, placing a few bills on the bartop.
"Thanks," Garrett said lamely, and Anders waved his hand dismissively.
"It's nothing." He took a sip of the bottle in his hands and made a face. "This tastes awful." Garrett couldn't help but chuckle.
"Then why did you get it?"
"Because it's been a long day, and I don't want to get completely trashed."
"And the easiest way to do that was . . . ?"
"Cheap ass beer, yeah."
They were both smiling, and some of the awkward tension that had been pressing down on Garrett's shoulders since he walked in released. Anders was one hell of a workaholic, like him. He had to be, when Varric was always on some odd job and he was left with all the forensics work. He forced himself to be more social than Garrett, but it stressed him out to no end to leave all that work behind. Still, at least he got to smash watermelons with a sledgehammer when things got bad, and call it research.
Anders also wasn't much of a drinking person. Whether it was the stress, because he was a horrible lightweight, the way he acted when he was totally smashed, or the awful, miserable way he handled hangovers, he seemed very averse to it. Garrett didn't blame him. He was a damn mess of a drunk.
"Varric has me working so hard lately," Anders complained, taking another swig. Vague concern sparked somewhere in Garrett's mind, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much. If Anders wanted to ruin his pace while he vented, that would be his own problem in the morning.
"He has two jobs in the station," Garrett pointed out. Anders pouted. It was so reminiscent of Isabela when she guilted people into doing things for her that Garrett laughed.
"So do I!" Anders sounded offended at the mere mention of Varric's double duty. "I have all that medical stuff, you know!"
"Yes, but only in emergencies."
Anders let out an indignant huff, nursing his beer. Garrett let his eyes wander as the blonde brooded, hunched over the bar with his forearms resting on the counter top. There were a few other officers about, very few that he really recognized, nobody whose name he knew. There was a waitress, but she mostly socialized with some regulars.
The bar itself was completely occupied, and suddenly Garrett realized why his drink was taking so long (well, not long, but long for a rum and coke). The white-hared bartender worked fast, but demands were issued every couple seconds. He was mesmerizing to watch. Every drink was measured - but not measured, eyeballed, rather - with astonishing precision, five glasses lined up at once and prepared at the same time, delivered quickly to each person. It actually seemed as if some guests were ordering just to watch him work.
The bartender turned to face them, reaching for a glass above Garrett's head, and he wouldn't lie, he was a little shaken at the man he was faced with.
"Sorry." His voice was so low and gruff. It went well with his general aesthetic - the dark, caramel skin, the crisscrossing white tattoos that peeked out from the rolled up sleeves and turned up collar of his leather jacket, the mute grays and blacks, the sharp angles of his face, the bleached whiteness of his hair, the startling green of his eyes. "I'll have your drink ready in a moment."
"No, it's quite alright," Garrett said, much closer to a mumble than he had intended. The bartender flashed him a faint smile before turning back around. Anders snorted.
"Stop gawking."
"I am not gawking." Okay, maybe he was gawking a little. Anders rolled his eyes, taking another sip, and Garrett had never felt more judged in his life.
"I can't believe you ignored me to gawk at the pretty bartender," he muttered moodily, resting his head in his arms. The alcohol was definitely getting to him - he was a depressed drunk. Something told Garrett he should take the beer from him, but he didn't care enough to when Anders was busy being petty.
Conveniently - or inconveniently, Garrett didn't know yet - Isabela chose that moment to sashay over, throwing her arms around his neck and practically crawling onto his lap. She was significantly more intoxicated now than when he left the table. She sighed dramatically, withdrawing one hand to place it dramatically and woefully on her forehead.
"You take so long," she whined, and tapped on the bar. "Bottle of your best bourbon."
"Get off," Garrett said idly, without much venom. "People will start to suspect things."
"Oh, Hawky!" Isabela only wrapped her arms tighter, her whining increasing in volume. "Are you breaking up with me? What a cruel man you are!"
"Isabela," came Aveline's annoyed voice, and the busty woman on Garrett's lap laughed uproariously. Yep, definitely drunk. Anders poked his head up next to them, looking absolutely miserable.
"He just wants to be available in case the cute bartender waltzes over and asks for his number," he grumbled. Isabela leaped off of her friend's lap instantly and bounced in excitement, grabbing Aveline's arm as she came close to the trio.
"The cute bartender?!" She was much too loud when she repeated it, and it made Garrett wince. "A cute bartender for our Hawky!"
"Isabela, please." Sure, he was cute, and lowkey Garrett's type, but . . . "I'm too busy. You know that."
"Maybe you shouldn't be," he caught Aveline mumbling, and he had never felt so betrayed in his life. He gave her a scandalized look, and she merely shrugged her freckled shoulders.
Isabela looked over to the bartender in question and immediately squealed in delight. Garrett rolled his eyes. He could feel the wingman in her coming out, and he desperately hoped it wouldn't.
"He's perfect!"
He hoped in vain.
The bartender approached him with a glass in hand. He set out a plain coaster and placed the drink on it, then slid it over to Garrett. Maker, his eyes were pretty. Garrett was no blushing schoolgirl, but his throat did go a little dry, looking at this hell of a man.
"Rum and coke," he said, in that perfect voice of his, and sparks flew. Garrett was hyper aware of every breath, as if it had gone from being second nature to a conscious effort. The bartender's eyes were so green, like a forest. A forest he'd love to explore, to spend forever mapping out and getting to know like the back of his hand. Those eyes pierced into his soul, and he loved it.
Garrett forced himself out of that stupor and accepted the drink. "Thanks." The bartender lingered for a second, eyes on him and him only, and then moved away. It felt like the world resumed spinning after it had stopped just for them. Garrett shook his head and, contrary to his original plan of keeping the alcohol intake low, gulped a third of it down right there.
"He's new," Isabela whispered in fervent excitement. "Holy shit, Hawky, I could feel the UST."
"Isabela," Garrett warned, but she was having none of it.
"Hawky," she interrupted firmly, eyes glinting with something dead serious, "you are getting laid tonight."
Anders let out a snort of laughter this time, and Aveline rolled her eyes. They all knew the fruitlessness of that. Almost as if on cue, Varric wandered over, Merrill in tow since she didn't like being alone. He took in the scene: Isabela somewhere between hanging on Aveline and readying to fight Garrett, Anders with his head in his hands. At Isabela's urging, he glanced over to the bartender, and nodded knowingly.
"Maybe we won't get him laid," Varric said reasonably, "but we will get him a hot date."
Garrett groaned. Isabela was beyond excited. Anders wanted to go home.
Varric waved the bartender over, settling an easy smile on his handsome face. The man was small, but damn, was he charming. When the bartender came over, he shot a brief glance at Garrett before awaiting Varric's request.
"What's your name, Broody?"
Broody! Garrett wanted to groan again. Sure, the guy was a little . . . serious . . . but broody? Wasn't that an insult? Maker, they were going to totally ruin this. All of it. He should start digging his own grave now.
"He really is rather moody-looking, isn't he?" Merrill put in, far too chipper for her alcohol intake.
"Nothing like Anders," Garrett managed through the shame and metaphorical tears, and Anders made a disgruntled noise, hugging his empty beer bottle.
Broody quirked an eyebrow and visibly fought against quirking his lips as he offered Anders another beer. The blonde snatched it from him. "What's it to you, little man?"
"Why," Varric laughed, "I make it an effort to know all the handsome, brooding bartenders around here!"
The man did break into a smile then, and Garrett was amazed. Varric was all charm. If anyone else had tried such an approach, the bartender looked like he probably would have snapped them in half.
"It's Fenris," the bartender said, amused.
Fenris. Garrett had flashbacks to Norse mythology - Fenrir, the Fenris-Wolf. Born a wolf cub, grew to become insurmountably strong, so strong he could break through any chain, and was prophesied to help bring about the end of the world. He was bound through foul play and betrayal, but it was said that he would break free for Ragnarok and devour all in his path.
"Fenris, like a wolf?" Merrill clapped her hands together. Way to read his mind, Merrill. It really frightened Garrett, sometimes. Still. A wolf. He was rather fond of that idea. Those eyes always seemed to pierce right into him, like a hunter stalking prey.
"Fenris!" Isabela leaned forward on the counter, pressing her breasts together pointedly. "Fenris. I like that. Are you single, Fenris?"
Garrett nearly choked on his drink. Fenris looked vaguely uncomfortable (that was actually somewhat rare, with someone as generously bestowed as her), inching away almost imperceptibly and looking away from Isabela. His eyes wandered - and landed right on Garrett.
"I'm not with anyone, no," he replied, locking their gazes, and Garrett could feel his heart stutter.
"Isabela, don't harass him," Aveline chided, seizing her upper arm and pulling her back. Fenris seemed relieved. Garrett was also relieved. Isabela was a handful, that was for sure. Still, he was surprised Fenris didn't go for it. Almost everyone did.
"She's right, Rivaini," Varric said, more gently. He turned to Fenris. "Can we get some water for this one?" Fenris wordlessly grabbed a glass and filled it in the sink behind the bar. Varric accepted it graciously and addressed Garrett. "We'll be over there, Hawke, taking care of this hot mess."
"Oh, but it's rather cool in here, don't you think?" Late to understand as always, Merrill piped in. "Are you feeling feverish, Isabela?"
"I'm not a mess," Isabela complained, but she was already being dragged away. Garrett could not express the amount of relief he felt.
He looked up at Fenris, but he was already turning away to take care of other customers. Garrett sighed and refrained from mimicking Anders's pathetic position, curled up on his stool with his head cradled in a pillow of his arms, though the urge was strong. He did not come out here for this mess. He wanted a drink or two, to catch up, and to go home, then straight back to work, not to have all of his friends trying to play wingman and failing miserably.
"Hawke, is it?"
Had Garrett mentioned how mesmerizing that voice was yet? Because it really was.
"That's me," he replied before even looking. He was glad of that, because he felt his mouth dry up the moment he looked at Fenris. Clearing his throat, he added in a surprisingly strong voice, "Garrett, actually. But everyone calls me Hawke."
"Would you prefer Garrett?" Fenris asked, tilting his head ever so slightly. Maker. Garrett was 29, a grown ass man, yet he was still nervous. He idly wondered how old Fenris was. And was he really asking his preference? Like it mattered between a bartender and customer?
"Which, uh, whichever works for you," Garrett said sheepishly. At last, a slip-up. Now he could sufficiently hate himself for his mistakes. Fantastic. Eager to move on and avoid letting it fester, he changed the topic. "Sorry for my friends. They can be . . . "
"Something," Fenris finished for him, his lips curling into something akin to a smile. Garrett really liked that smile. He nodded dumbly.
"Isabela's a mess."
"I'm sure she means well."
They were quiet for a moment, long enough to hear Anders make a vague complaining grumble next to them before he shifted and fell silent again. Fenris was staring at him, eyes narrowed slightly in what seemed to be contemplation. Garrett felt as though he was being carefully inspected as those eyes and that gaze slid over the various features on his face, including the scar across his nose and his magnificent beard. In return (or retaliation?), Garrett allowed himself to gawk at the sharp lines and strong angles of Fenris's face.
No time, he reminded himself sternly.
"You know, your friends aren't very quiet," Fenris interrupted his thoughts. Garrett felt embarrassment wash over him, but merely buried his face in his spiked coke and kept quiet. "And that Isabela is a shit wingman. Wingwoman."
I didn't even want a wingwoman, he silently mourned, but saying that would imply he wasn't interested in Fenris, which he was. He really was. He just didn't have time.
"Sorry about that," Garrett apologized. "I tried to tell them not to do it."
Fenris shook his head and eyed him again, giving a thoughtful little hum. "I find it surprising that a man with your presence even needs a wingman." Wait, what? "You could just talk to me, you know. I'm not always busy."
Wait, wait, wait, hold the phone. Was Fenris flirting? Not flirting. Inviting him to flirt? Just talk? Both? It had been entirely too long since he had done anything of the sort in terms of chatting someone up with romantic intent. What did he even talk about? What did he say? Good grief, Fenris was right there. Say something!
"I haven't seen you here before," he blurted, and almost instantly regretted it. If it hadn't been for the decidedly calm expression on Fenris's face, Garrett would have run right then and there. Imagine that, a burly man like Garrett Hawke running from a cute bartender who was directly asking to talk to him.
Fenris seemed a little surprised, as if he expected something else to be said, but responded smoothly nevertheless. "Well, I've worked here for a week," he said, "and I haven't seen you, either. I take it you don't show up often."
"Hardly," Garrett told him. "Always busy with work."
"With bullshit, you mean," Anders mumbled tiredly from his arms, and Garrett made a strangled noise.
He wanted to dump the rest of his rum and coke on Anders. He resisted the urge, mostly because Fenris was reaching under the counter for more rum and coke. It was as if he'd read Garrett's mind and was getting him more liquor to distract him. That, or he was just a good bartender that noticed a customer's glass was getting low. The world may never know.
"I assume you're an officer, like everyone who goes through here?" Fenris questioned as he topped the glass off, and Garrett took a sip before he answered.
"So perceptive," he teased as Fenris put the drinks away. "You should join the force." Fenris rolled his pretty eyes and rested his forearms on the counter, not replying. Something akin to distaste lingered in his expression before he smoothed his features into a smile, and Garrett relented. "I'm a captain. I just have a lot of paperwork, and sometimes I slack." It wasn't a lie, just a half-truth. Fenris didn't ask, so he didn't tell. "I'm really not even supposed to be here."
Fenris leaned forward, and Garrett was frozen in place. It was as if he was being scrutinized for all of a second, and then those lips spread in something of a mischievous smile.
"Well, you wouldn't mind staying for a few more drinks, would you, Captain Hawke?" he nearly purred, and Maker if Garrett's knees didn't get a little weak. People used his surname all the time - first-name bases were unprofessional in the office, and uncommon outside of it - and yet something about the way Fenris said it made him shiver. It was probably just because it was Fenris saying it.
He was so glad he was sitting down.
"Well, the office is closed." At least, he hoped Carver had gone home by now. "So I suppose I'm here as long as you want me."
"A lot longer than tonight," Fenris whispered, so quiet only Garrett could hear it, and promptly backed off.
He turned away to serve refills, and Garrett fought hard not to let his entire body sag. A grown ass man! he reminded himself. A grown ass man with no time for commitments! Though Fenris only worked across the street, and sounded like he worked pretty regularly, so it sounded like he could really come see him anytime. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Carver might get a little mad, but . . .
Carver. No, he couldn't abandon his little brother to their shared research. They had important work to do, and Garrett knew it couldn't wait for his own little escapades. He had more important things to do, even if Fenris was an absolute god on earth and made his heart beat like it hadn't ever done before. Garrett Hawke didn't do relationships, and he wouldn't until he had taken care of more important things.
But maybe . . .
"Your number." Fenris slid a receipt and a pen under his hand and crossed his arms expectantly.
Maybe . . .
"My what?" Garrett asked, much more stupid than he wanted to sound, and Fenris allowed a chuckle.
"Your number," he repeated. "I'm going to text you and invite you out. So write down your number."
Maybe after everything. Maybe later.
Satisfied with the answer he'd given himself, Garrett took the pen and wrote his number down in a neat scrawl. Later, when everything was over, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least keep his options open right now.